Possesion and Possesed
by Lily Turtle
Summary: Can evil be an acquired trait? Was James always so vile? No. He was a man once, an inventor, with feelings, and thoughts, and...the love of a maiden with auburn tresses. James was human, once upon a time. This is his story.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Stephenie owns everything, the world, my life, my right pinky toe...but more important than all that, Twilight and its characters.

_Prologue_

Blood...it was calling to him – like a moth to the flame or a starving wolf to the chicken. He _needed_ it, and this one smelled so sweet.

He ran. Unfortunate, for this particular victim, that he was not in a sunny mood today. Its death would be painful.

James grinned morbidly, sickeningly, and ran through the alleyways.

He could see her up ahead of him, long auburn waves swept back behind her shoulders. She was sitting on a bench, flushed skin glowing in the lamplight, skirts and petticoats draped over the side of the bench. No one was around to stop him, not that they could if they so desired.

He stopped in the shadows to observe his prey.

She was writing in a leather-bound notebook. What was she writing? He could soon find out if he wanted to.

This was a rare find. It was the late nineteenth century. Women usually remained indoors and participated in activities that required minimal thought, embroidery and the like. He shrugged, and thought grimly, that he liked his meat prepared rare. Well-done was simply too stale.

He took a step towards his victim. A breeze from the Charleston harbor blew her hair and sent her delectable scent wafting towards him. She shivered and glanced up, eyes unknowingly looking at her personal reaper.

He snarled when he noticed, with a vengeance, that she looked like _her!_ Good, he thought, all the more reason to kill this girl. And let Syl..HER, he quickly corrected himself, take all his extra lashings in Hell.

He couldn't control it anymore. He stepped out of the shadows and, crouching, stalked towards the girl.

Several seconds later, every candle in every bedroom of the harbor was lit, the occupants awakened by a series of blood-curdling screams.

**A/N: Quite a bit different from my romance/comedy/drama, Rose Thorns...hmmm...who's _her_ I wonder? And remember folks, this is a dark story. Scary. As in, don't read at night by yourself in a creakedy old house. I just...wondered about James and his background. Could his evil be an acquired trait? Also, I set this story in the Edwardian era...Very fitting, don't you think?**


	2. The Devil and Midnight Dances

A/N: Yes, I put this at the beginning because it's IMPORTANT…this story is going to run in multiple eras…there'll be the present time and then flashbacks of before he was a vampire…HOWEVER, the "present" time is going to jump around

**Disclaimer**: Truthfully, I own most of THIS particular story. All except for James.

**A/N: Yes, I put this at the beginning because it's IMPORTANT…this story is going to run in multiple eras…there'll be the present time and then flashbacks of before he was a vampire…HOWEVER, the "present" time is going to jump around. He's going to be remembering parts of his life at different points. PLUS, I want a chance to talk about his thoughts about Alice and tracking Bella, how he met Victoria and Laurent, and his other various victims. Oh, and, Macbeth references abound. So, enjoy…**

_Present Time: Coulbourn, Georgia, November 21, 1864_

"General Hatch!"

James glanced up from under the bill of my cloth hat to see who was disturbing him. If only that soldier knew _what_ he was disturbing, then maybe he wouldn't be so flippant.

"What do you want?" James replied tersely.

The soldier went rigid. They all did when they got this close. Something inside them simply told them this was dangerous, instincts as old and primal as they come.

"You're wearing my patience thin, Berkeley."

"Sherman, sir…he…he," the soldier stuttered.

James stood up, knocking the flimsy wooden table to the ground. "Get on with it!" he roared.

"He wants you," blurted Berkeley, before turning and fleeing the army tent in a frenzy.

James sighed. Sherman always wanted him. He was, after all, a key reason for the marches' success. Sherman's Terrible March through Georgia – that's what the people called it. Some said that he had the devil on his side. James snickered quietly to himself. They didn't know how right they were.

Joining the Union army didn't have a thing to do with serving this damned country. It had to do with survival, food. Total warfare provided him with a perfect opportunity. In the chaos of a house or field being burned to the ground, who would notice a few missing people? No one, that's who…and while they were busy running around in useless terror, he would gorge himself on fresh blood. No soldier had been a victim…not yet anyways. Their terrible smell saved them most days.

He kept his brim kept pulled over his crimson eyes when he walked. No need for soldiers to get more suspicious than they already were. Sometimes, when one looked at him in a particularly funny way, he'd lift his hat and wink. That put the fear of God into them.

He lifted the flap to Sherman's tent. "William!" James greeted his commanding officer. "You summoned me?"

"That's General Sherman to you, boy," said William.

"Oh," said James, rocking back on his heels and crossing his arms. "Well, would you rather I just call you Tecumseh, then?"

"I'll make you a deal, James Hatch," Sherman started. "You can call me by my middle name if I can address you by yours. Is that to your satisfaction, _Artemis_? Or should I leave it at Arty?"

Sherman pushed James' buttons on a daily basis, and if James didn't enjoy this fairly free buffet so much, the man wouldn't have gotten to live to breathe his next breath. As it was however, James was addicted to this lifestyle, and killing Sherman would arouse suspicion. He'd have to give it all up and move somewhere else.

In spite of his baser instincts, the ones that told him to rip this chump apart limb from limb, he grinned. "Whatever you say, Tecumseh."

"Well, Arty," Sherman said, "I just wanted to let you know that we are burning some farms on the outskirts of Coulbourn today, and that you are going to take Lieutenants Berkeley and Darton, and their men, and attack from the South. We'll show those Southerners what happens when they toy with their superiors."

Sometimes, James swore that Sherman had a soul as black as his. That thought almost, not quite, but _almost_ made him cringe, and want to become a saint immediately.

"Berkeley again?" James complained. "He's too full of human kindness for this occupation. Let the cows go last time because he felt _sorry for them_! The cattle!"

"Teach him cruelty," Sherman commanded. "It should be easy for you. Some say you're Lucifer himself."

"And what do you think?" James asked.

"Me?" Sherman said, "As long as you keep helping me win, boy, I don't care what you are, where you're from, or what you talk like. Hell, you could be a three headed bullfrog for all I care."

"Close," James chuckled, "Very close."

Then, he swept the khaki fabric aside and walked out into the sunlight. He tucked his hands into his pocket, lifted his shirt collar, and pulled down his hat more. It wouldn't do to go sparkling all through the Civil War.

Some time after sundown, James, Berkeley, and Darton were standing in the woods that brushed right up to a farm house. A faction of men stood in hiding around them, waiting for James' signal.

A flash of his white hand, and they began creeping forward.

Warm candlelight shown out through the windows. The night was cold in November, and the grass was brown, but the flames that were about to engulf this house should fix that easily. James held his torch higher above his head.

As he got closer, he heard music, a piano playing, fiddle strings being stroked, a tapping foot, and a singing girl.

The tune they were playing, he recognized immediately. "The Washing Day"… it was an upbeat melody, and it did something strange to his chest, like it was trying to pull on his heartstrings, but they just weren't there anymore.

When the reason for its familiarity hit him, it hit him like a steel rod. That was the song playing the first time he'd took Sylvia dancing…

_Flashback: Charleston, South Carolina, June 2, 1842_

"James!" giggled Sylvia. "Stop it!"

I stopped kissing her, my sweet Sylvia, and looked into her cerulean eyes.

"It's not proper," she said, getting off my lap and adjusting her flowing white skirts on the bench.

"Since when have you cared a lick about what is or is not proper, Vi?" I asked, putting my arm around her and pulling her into my side.

"It's just…this isn't proper is all," she insisted.

I laughed. "Says the girl who climbs trees."

"Exactly."

"Vi, that doesn't even make sense," I told her.

"Not to you," she whined. "You're just a silly boy. You wouldn't understand."

"Climbing trees or being proper?" I asked.

She crossed her arms. "Both."

"Anything you say, my darling."

Like a bolt of lightning, she was up out of my arms, but had her hand held out for mine.

I placed my palm in her soft one, enveloping it, and made her believe that she was helping me to my feet. "Let's stroll," she said.

"You mean go for a stroll…"

"No," she corrected, "just stroll. It can be a verb as well."

I repeated myself for what felt like the hundredth time today. "Anything you say, my darling."

We walked along the cobbled streets, past merchants trying to sell us all sorts of things. Sylvia, with her burning curiosity, had to have a look at every one. I breathed a long sigh of relief after we had passed out of the market.

Now, we were wondering down near the harbor. I could smell the salty brine, and it tickled my nose. The ocean breeze lifted Sylvia's auburn hair, and I watched, mesmerized, as it curled and shaped itself in coils around her face.

The farther we walked, the louder the music got. It sounded merry, full of glee and excitement. As we came upon the source, I saw that it was a tavern. Sylvia didn't even give it a passing glance. I, however, jumped up on the front steps and gave a dramatic bow, low, with one hand behind my back.

"Fair lady," I announced, "Please allow me to make amends for my blatant deficit in all things proper. Will you, milady, do me the tremendous honor of this dance?"

Sylvia laughed, and I sighed. I could live there, in her laugh.

With a bat of her eyelashes, she preceded me into the door. "Of course, Sir Hatch, I'd love to," she called as she brushed past me.

'The Washing Day', a popular song at the time, was playing throughout the room.

I grabbed Sylvia's hand, when I found her that is, and pulled her right out to the middle of the throng.

"These aren't my dancing shoes," she warned.

"Then take them off!" I laughed.

"And here I thought you were trying to be proper. If I take them off, you might see my ankles. Then, you'd have to marry me."

"And…" I encouraged.

She thwapped me on the shoulder.

"I mean 'no," I corrected, "Oh, the horror!" I made a face at her.

She thwapped me again. Apparently, that was meant to be a rhetorical statement.

"Why don't you tell me how I should answer you next time," I suggested, only to be answered with by yet another whack.

I sighed. "Aw, Vi, just dance with me."

Before she could protest, I grabbed her hands and started swinging her around to the lively music. It was one of the happiest nights of my life. If I'd only known then that it wouldn't last forever…


End file.
